


Luxuries

by bioticbootyshaker



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier and the months that follow; Natasha, forced to reveal more information about herself than she's comfortable with, disappears off the grid. While in hiding, she discovers she's not alone in her quest to remain under the radar: Bucky Barnes is in hiding, too, and he has no one left to turn to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unaffordable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secretbraintwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretbraintwin/gifts).



_It’s hard to trust someone when you don’t know who they are._

A smile; quick, soft, inviting. She met his eyes and said, “Who do you want me to be?”

Everyone else would have laughed, would have accepted her dodging and evading and let her be. But Steve was different from anyone else Natasha had ever known. A line formed on his brow, heavy and dark, and his lips remained still. Not grim, precisely, Natasha doubted he possessed the capacity for grimness — but definitely _strained_. He wanted to know everything there was to know, and Natasha couldn’t tell him. Not even precisely because she couldn’t trust him, but only… because she couldn’t trust _herself_.

To be vulnerable, to be _honest_ —-

She had never been afforded the luxury.

****

 

2 am on a Friday morning, Natasha grabbed the phone on the third ring. She hadn’t been sleeping so her voice was clear, if not a little cautious. After what had happened with S.H.I.E.L.D and Director Fury, cautiousness was not only preferred, but demanded. “Who is this?” she whispered. Sam’s apartment was safe, as far as she could tell, but there was a small bit of dread low in her stomach, a small rush of chill at the base of her neck. 

“’Tasha,” a man said. She had expected any number of voices on the other end of the line — ranging from icy to deceptively warm — but had never expected his voice. There was no reason he should have found her, no reason he should have even been _looking_. 

“Clint,” Natasha sighed. “What is it?”

The words at the back of her mind whispered, _Everyone could be compromised._

For once, it was a matter she left to her heart. 

He got quiet. Natasha thought about hanging up; in fact, she kept her finger poised over the ‘end call’ button, but she stopped herself. Intellectually, there wasn’t much of a reason to trust Clint when S.H.I.E.L.D was after them, especially considering what had happened the last time things had gotten dicey. Yet Natasha waited, thinking of him when his mind had returned, thinking of the grief and shame on his face, the tremble in his fingers, the sound of his voice when he’d apologized for things that hadn’t been his fault. Trust, too, had always been a luxury denied her, but Natasha took a chance on him. 

With some hesitance, she could admit that Clint was the one she always took a chance on.

“I heard,” Clint said, when the silence stretched too long for his comfort. “About Fury.”

Wetness, heat, stinging her eyes. Natasha took a steadying breath. “Yeah,” she said. “You want to know where to send flowers?”

“’Tasha, I’m—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Natasha said. Not cruelly, but with great finality. After everything, she couldn’t bear to hear the word from him. To hear it would be to admit to a truth she didn’t want to face; not when there was still so much left to do. Not when there was still a threat to be taken care of. She had been given a mission — whether directly or indirectly — and she intended to get it done. There was no need for Clint to say that word that hung heavy in the silence between them. There was no need for him to be on the other end of the phone at all; and there was certainly no need for the heat in her eyes and the frost in her chest. 

“—Yeah,” Clint said. “Just take care of yourself. I guess, I mean… Be safe, okay?”

It seemed everything tender was a luxury she couldn’t afford. A simple promise proved too much. 

Only when Clint hung up could she whisper, “I’ll try.”

****

Steve placed his trust in the guy. Natasha supposed that was good enough for her, though she kept her own guard up around him until she had judged Sam’s intentions for herself. There was nothing to be concerned about, really. He was smart, fair, good-hearted and good-natured — he was a little like Steve, actually, with the same boyish charm and easy smile. Natasha liked him, which was saying quite a bit; she could count on one hand the number of people she actually _enjoyed_. 

“You don’t have a reason to trust us,” Natasha said. They were sitting in Sam’s kitchen with the shades drawn, the house dim and silent and not at all to Sam’s liking judging by the way he fidgetted and looked about his home with disapproval. “Why take the chance?”

“Are you kidding?” Sam asked. He smiled, a slight gap in his teeth, and looked at Steve. Natasha wasn’t sure if it was fanaticism or infatuation. “A chance to help Captain America? Sign me up.”

Steve laughed. “Oh, yeah. You say that now, but wait until you’re being chased down by Hydra agents, then you’ll be blaming _me_ for everything.”

“Hey, man,” Sam said. “I’m blaming you already. Doesn’t mean I won’t help.”

“You’re going completely on blind faith,” Natasha said. “You don’t know if we’re working with Hydra. You don’t know anything about us.” She nodded at Steve. “He’s a story to you, isn’t he? He’s something your daddy talked about when you were wearing footsie pajamas. You’re going to help us because you like his story?”

Natasha understood she should be grateful, but she couldn’t wrap her head around such uncomplicated, unrestricted _faith_. This man had a perfectly normal, perfectly good life. He carried his demons and his bad memories with him the way everyone did, of course, but he was _okay_. He worked and lead meetings and barbecued and drank beer on the weekends and went jogging and to the supermarket and to the barber shop when his hair got long — he wasn’t someone who should be so willing to mess up his life for a man he didn’t know and a cause that didn’t involve him. 

“Maybe,” Sam said. “Or maybe I wanna see his story go on a little longer. Maybe I wanna see _everyone_ get a chance to have a story.” He leaned forward, looking at her a little too closely, a little too _intently_. He could see right through her, under muscle and bone, and her heart beat a little harder. “I don’t want blood on my hands.”

_Red in my ledger_ ; the words echoed through her head, a cacophony she couldn’t ignore.

She had never understood blind faith and blind loyalty; but she could understand wanting to do the right thing. Easy to forget that she had a good heart too, no matter how much she sometimes had to ignore its protests.

Easy to forget that she was a little like Steve Rogers too.

****

“You couldn’t afford to do this,” Steve said. They were standing at Fury’s ‘grave’, the sky overhead gray and rumbling distantly with thunder. Natasha didn’t ask what he meant. Leaking information was dangerous, given her past — dangerous, too, given how much some people would love to get their hands on her. If she’d been concerned before about who she could trust, Natasha was certain now that the answer was a resounding _no one_. Still, she stood beside Steve with ease, hands in the pockets of her jeans, shoulders lifting slightly with a shrug. “Maybe not,” Natasha said, “But I wasn’t given much of a choice.”

He was worried for her; Steve carried his concern in his shoulders, in the tightness of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. She wasn’t used to people worrying for her. She wasn’t used to someone looking her in the eye — or sitting on the other end of a phone call — and asking her, _pleading with her_ , to be okay. 

“Natasha,” Steve said. “I’m—”

Natasha hated the word, especially when it was coming from Steve Rogers. She silenced him with a kiss, firm, against his mouth. Steve didn’t melt against her lips the way he had the last time she’d kissed him, but there was something soft there, something sweet in the shape of his lips under hers and the press of his fingers against the small of her back. 

“Don’t,” she said, her voice softer with the word than when she’d silenced Clint. The reason was simple: Clint knew better. 

Steve smiled at her, crookedly, letting his nose nudge hers.

“You have a lot to smile about,” Natasha said. “Two kisses in seventy years. You’re on fire, Cap.”

He flushed. “There’s been more than two.”

“So you’re saying three.”

His laugh was nice to hear, strong and deep and good. Natasha wanted to tell him that he shouldn’t hang around with anyone who didn’t let him laugh that way — who didn’t fill his face with color and his heart with heat — but she couldn’t quite manage the words. 

They didn’t matter. Better to leave him with his crooked smile.

****

_It’s hard to trust someone when you don’t know who they are._

Natasha leaned her head against window as the plane climbed higher and the only thing she could see was darkness and thin wisps of clouds. 

She was no longer sure who she really was, or why she was so desperate to find out what she was capable of, to push herself past ancient boundaries and find the threshold of her own comfort. Revealing the truth of who she was had held far less weight and import than Fury and Steve feared; she was constantly evolving and changing. Necessary for her profession, but dangerous for the people who’d made the mistake of caring for her. 

Sometimes she wanted to stop and simply _be._ Be still, be safe, be _home._

A sigh left her, long and slow. 

Luxuries.


	2. Remade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha helps Bucky through the minefield of his memories; the pieces of which are sharp and painful.

Chapter Two

Natasha told herself it was purely happenstance that she found him outside her hotel room, mediating a fight between an ancient snack machine and a crumpled dollar bill; but of course, that would be to deny that inexorable pull they had towards one another. Denying the times she had looked into the darkness of his eyes and seen her own reflection there. And, truth be told, it would be denying that she’d been tailing him since Pittsburgh. 

‘The Winter Soldier’ didn’t look quite as deadly as the last time she’d seen him, all leather and slick movements — now he looked harried, haggard and exhausted. He had a week’s worth of stubble steadily approaching a beard, dark circles under his eyes. His hair was messy and pulled up in a loose bun and he was dressed in torn jeans and a hoodie that had seen better days — or decades. More Bucky Barnes than any asset of Hydra, and while Natasha watched him carefully, she was happy to see that he was more of the man Steve Rogers cared for, than the weapon he’d been turned into.

_Steve._

There was no way for her to contact him. Not only was she deep in hiding herself, but Steve had left her no number to reach him at. He was searching for Bucky himself, with Sam, both of them probably crammed into some cheap motel room with barely enough space to sit side by side comfortably. Even if she’d had a number for him… Natasha wasn’t sure she would’ve reached out to him. It had nothing to do with any lingering feelings she had for Bucky, but more her feelings for Steve. He’d been a good friend to her, and the last thing she wanted was to complicate things for him, more than they already were. He was a strong guy, resilient, but he had a tender heart. He didn’t need to see Bucky standing there with his eyes haunted and his body too thin and his hands trembling around a ruined dollar bill.

If she could spare him, at least for a little while, she would.

With a slow, steadying breath, Natasha left her room and approached Bucky. She moved softly, silently, down the breezeway, pressing herself as close to the wall as she could. It wasn’t that she feared Bucky finding her — after all, she was going to confront him, whether he saw her approaching or not — only that she knew what it meant to be frightened, to be smaller than anyone could ever know, to be hunted and hounded. 

She knew what it meant to be unmade, and try, desperately, to piece yourself together again. 

Bucky heard her and turned, frantic, his eyes wide and wild, his jaw clenched so tight Natasha was surprised his teeth didn’t simply shatter. When he saw her, a flicker of recognition replaced the fear in his eyes, before he turned from her and tried to move away. Natasha grabbed his wrist, gently, and when Bucky didn’t try to pull from her, she led him back to her room, closing the door with a quick glance around to make sure no one had seen. There were eyes everywhere, and very few people that she could trust. Bucky was among them, in fact, but Natasha ignored the whispered protests at the back of her mind and sat him down on the bed. 

He was overtired, shaky and unsteady. His eyes whipped around the room, never settling, and when her hands moved to his face, he flinched. That hurt her, more than she was comfortable admitting. She wondered how many hands had hurt him, and she felt her skin flush with anger. 

“It’s alright,” Natasha told him. “Trust me.”

He stared at her, dully. That seemed worse than the fear, than the wildness. 

_Trust no one._ They’d been taught that, once upon a time. Trust the gun in your hands and the muscles tensing and relaxing in your fingers and arms, trust the beat of your heart and the echoes of your own steps; but trust _no one_. Bucky’s eyes told the story she already knew. He had been created for war, a soldier, a _weapon_ , left with no battle and no target. He was hunted by more than Hydra, he was hunted by memory, by a purpose he wanted to unlearn. Natasha traced her thumb over his cheek, where a bruise was fading. 

“I’ll take care of you,” she said, in her mother tongue, in the language she’d spoken when they’d broken and remade her. 

Bucky nodded, slowly, not flinching when Natasha replaced her thumb with her lips.

****

As it turned out, Natasha didn’t need to contact Steve. He called her one night, when Bucky was lying beside her with his breath slow and steady against her neck. He hadn’t left her side for longer than it took him to shower and brush his teeth in over a week, and while Natasha was relieved to see the fear and primal glint leaving his eyes, she wasn’t sure if Bucky being glued to her was much better. 

“We haven’t found him,” Steve sighed, as though Natasha had asked how his search for Bucky was going. He evaded her questions about how he’d found her deftly enough, even if Natasha was sure Fury was responsible for leading him to her. No one else could have found her. Well, that was slightly disingenuous; plenty of people could have found her, given how many were looking for her, but only one would have reached out to Steve with the information. 

“That’s rough,” Natasha said. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be found, though?”

There was a long pause. Natasha almost thought Steve had hung up, but he spoke when she went to disconnect, his voice smaller and softer than she’d ever heard it. “I’m scared for him,” Steve said. “I’m scared that someone… That someone’s hurt him or done something to him and he needs me and I’m not there.”

“Hey, breathe,” Natasha said, as gently as she could. “We’re not talking about a kid here, Steve.”

“No,” Steve agreed. “We’re talking about a guy who’s been through hell and doesn’t have a damn clue who he is or where he’s going or what he’s doing. We’re talking about my _friend_ , and it’s… it’s killing me.”

“Steve—”

She almost told him. The words were there, on the tip of her tongue, pressing against her lips. But Bucky shifted, scratching her throat with his stubble, and he made a noise — soft and confined to his throat — that was pained and small — and she understood that she couldn’t. She had to protect both of them, for as long as she could. If Steve found out she had Bucky with her, he’d tear himself to pieces trying to get to him and take care of him; he’d give up everything else and kill himself trying to save and protect a man who probably could never be saved or protected. And Bucky… it was difficult enough for him to deal with the memories he had scratching at the inside of his brain… If Steve showed up, it might do more damage than good. He might see him and be torn to shreds. 

There was no getting around the truth of it; as much good as they were for one another, they were also dangerous for one another. Until enough time had passed, at least. Until they could heal, in whatever ways they were able. 

“—Don’t beat yourself up too much, okay? Take it easy.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighed. She could see him sitting in some hotel room with Sam sleeping behind him, looking more like a little boy than any supersoldier. He missed his friend, and it was as simple as that. Again, Natasha almost told him, and again, she stopped herself. “Thanks, Nat.”

“For what?”

“For listening, I guess.” He laughed, without much humor. “For putting up with me.”

“Hey, any time, gramps,” Natasha teased. “Get some rest. And lose this number.”

When she hung up, her hand instinctively moved to Bucky’s face, fingertips easing gently against the still-fading bruise on his cheek. He stirred, breath rushing against her throat. Natasha closed her eyes and touched her lips to his forehead. 

She liked things neat and tidy, and she’d gotten herself into a mess. 

****

Weaponized. 

People threw the word around with no understanding of what it truly meant. Natasha understood. She understood when she looked at Bucky just what was happening to his mind and his body as he struggled to turn himself into something softer, something forged for a world where war wasn’t a constant. Natasha understood that your body was a danger, to yourself as well as others, that your mind would insist you were too _still_ , too _comfortable_. Unlearning years — _decades_ — worth of teaching and imprinting was difficult enough without finding yourself piecing together all of the memories that had come before then. 

In his sleep, Bucky said Steve’s name. Not a whisper, but a desperate, plaintive whine. Sometimes he said Natasha’s name, too, with less insistence — probably because even in his sleep he could feel her there, against him, the heat and solidity of her the only thing that kept him grounded. In the mornings, Bucky wouldn’t talk about his dreams. That was fine. Natasha never asked. 

“He used to tell me how much he loved me,” Bucky said. He was sitting on the bed with his hands fisted in his lap and his head down. Natasha didn’t say anything, or move to him. She let him work through it, painfully and slowly and messily. There was no other way to reshape yourself.

“A long time ago,” Bucky continued, his voice brittle like fractured glass, “A long time ago when he… When we were different.” He laughed, shakily, and combed his fingers through his hair. “ _Fuck_ ,” he swore, roughly, “I want to remember more. I _don’t_ want to—”

“You want to remember the way he told you he loved you,” Natasha said. “But if you remember that, you’ll remember everything else. The way they hurt you. The way they put their hands on you and crawled into your head and cut you to pieces. You’ll remember everything and you’re scared.”

Her voice was level, conversational; but her heart was beating hard and fast in her throat. The words cut her deep, but she said them, pushed them past lips that felt bloody and torn. Bucky needed to hear the words, and maybe she needed to say them.

“I want to find him,” Bucky said. He looked up, put his eyes on her. “I want to stay with you.”

The words threw her. She didn’t know how to respond. Natasha ignored them and pushed ahead. “You’re still working things out. Don’t push yourself too hard.”

Bucky let the matter drop, but Natasha could feel his electricity. He wouldn’t sit idly forever, and if he was really so anxious to find Steve and see what memories he could pull out of the ashes. Indecision twisted her stomach. There was no telling what might happen once he saw Steve. He might get a flood of memories so powerful he was washed away in them; or he might have stared at Steve dully, with little recognition in his eyes and fire in his heart. That, no doubt, would cause pain for Steve.

There was no way to rebuild yourself without making a mess of things…

Natasha picked up the phone.

****

Their reunion was silent. 

Steve drove the entire way, not trusting the airlines to get him there quickly enough. He looked haggard when he got there, his hair mussed and slack against his forehead, his eyes heavy, his face rougher with beard than Natasha had ever seen. Sam was with him, but he hung back, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking at his sneaker. Natasha stood with him, stepping out into the breezeway. The air was chilly against her, and Sam slung his jacket over her shoulders when he saw her shiver. 

Steve should have been a little nervous about approaching the man who had put him in the hospital, but he went to Bucky with no hesitance. Bucky looked at him, _really looked at him_ , for a minute, before moving closer to him. The reunion wasn’t totally silent — Steve whispered something to Bucky, and he nodded slowly. And then, Bucky was hugging him, tightly, his knuckles white as he fisted Steve’s shirt and tucked his face against the hollow of his throat. They stood there together for a long while, with Natasha and Sam standing together and watching them. Sam took her hand after a while, and Natasha squeezed around his fingers. 

Rebuilding yourself was painful, was messy, was a slow, arduous process. 

She and Bucky would learn how to do it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of a story written for secretbraintwin on tumblr! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for secretbraintwin on tumblr! This is my very first contribution to Marvel fandom, so please be gentle! That said, never hesitate to offer me critique :3


End file.
